2: 27 A M.

Sometimes, all I want to do is run.

Get the breath knocked right outta me, and feel.

Feel the linger of life breeze through the air--

across my knotted hair, upon my ivory skin.

It's about thirty past two,

it's morning but it's dark,

and I can't sleep.

I w a n t t o  r  u  n.

All I really ask for,

is someone interesting, intriguing--
is that really too much to ask?
Are my desires sincerely too vague?
I want conversations about nothing,
about the meanings behind e v e r y t h i n g.
I want to sit in silence upon a hill that overlooks half of the city,
with a h u m a n who see's beauty in branches and stones.
A  h u m a n.
Is there any human out there who can appreciate my silly mind?
Who can ignore my manic heart?
If There's a human out there, s o m e w h e r e,
who will bother to read between my lines--

Where art thou?

Where art thou now?

Please, come soon. 

(and the whole 'art thou' thing is just a touch of exaggeration, by the way. C'mon, no one talks like that anymore. If Shakes were still around, he probably wouldn't either.)

x  o  x   o .

PRESS PLAY > >

This song makes me want to fall in love, only to get heart broken.

It's so devastatingly--b e a u t i f u l.

I want to do it all.

E v e r y t h i n g.
I want to direct a film that will reach out to the troublesome for generations to come.

I want to write a book that will be held in the heart of an anonymous for years after my death.

I want to learn to paint, and set my thoughts out on a canvas.
I want to climb the second highest mountain in the world.
I want to play a set of seven acoustic songs
under a starry night at a city park,
a set that will reach relation to the twelve listeners there.
I want to fall in love with a stranger for a night, just a night,
and proceed with normality the next day.
I want to take a midnight train ride, just myself, my journal,
a blue-ink pen, a Polaroid 600--
and flee to Chicago's Newberry.
I want to cry inside the waters of the ocean, so I can literally swim in my own tears.
I want to go to Paris, and eat a bowl of spaghetti.
I want to go to Geneva, and for a few seconds,
view life through Laura Marling's manic eyes.
I want to dance endlessly for three nights straight, in the middle of a deserted forest with all my friends.
I want to have the best conversation of my life with the person I'd least expect to.
I want to-- I want to stop wanting so much.
it'll eventually drive me sane.

Do you ever feel this way, too?

Citation du jour:

"But hurry, let's entwine ourselves as one, 

our mouth broken, our soul bitten by love, 

so time discovers us safely destroyed."
— Federico García Lorca

Me gustan.

c h a n g e.

I slept on the opposite side of my bed last night, 

to prove myself that I'm not afraid of change.

Came the start of another morning,

I felt accomplished to still be alive. Better yet, alive and rested.

Ironically it seems, that as I stood up--my bed fell apart, literally. 

A few inches away from my feet, in front of my face, 

the delicate wooden covert took its last toll and collapsed.

All I'm left with now is a box spring and a mattress, 

but man oh man does it feel good. 

I survived the crashing start of a changing day, 

and that dear listener, feels good.

m e m o i r s.

I want to capture it.
I want to capture it all.
I want to capture it all in black and white.
Your smile, the slightly visible violet creases under your eyes.
Our first time interlocking fingers
during that summer evening walk in 92'.
The city, its streetlights, the pond in Griffith park.
That time you accidentally spilled your hot tea on my woven sweater. 
The knots in your hair before getting out of bed.
The steam of our starting mornings---
coffee pot on the stove, traveling train outside our kitchen window...
Our third midnight phone-call conversation.
The rush of being young and in-run, not thinking about love--
I want to capture it, in black and white.
The moments when everything was new,
when every little thing felt exciting.
I want to capture us, our hours full of static and color,
and save them in my memory of black and white.

PRESS PLAY > >

The more I listen to this song, the more I fall in love it ♥

The video is amazing ---
And Yannis? Well, he's a fucking beauty.
F o a l s  is just all around a m a z i n g.

"So I walked through to the haze

And a million dirty waves
Now I see you lying there
Like a lilo, losing air...air
Black rocks on the shoreline surf
Still that summer I cannot bear
And I wipe the sand from my eyes--


It's the Spanish Sahara, the place that you'd wanna
leave the horror...
Forget the horror here
Forget the horror here
Leave it all down here...


It's future rust and then it's future dust--

Now the waves, they drag you down,

Carry you to broken ground.
Though I'll find you in the sand,
Wipe you clean with dirty hands.
So god damn this boiling space--
It's the Spanish Sahara, the place that you'd wanna
leave the horror...


Forget the horror here
Forget the horror here
Leave it all down here
It's future rust and it's future dust--

I'm the fury in your head

I'm the fury in your bed

I'm the g h o s t in the back of your head,

Cause I am...

I'm the fury in your head

I'm the fury in your bed

I'm the ghost in the back of your head,

Cause I am."

Note to self:

I want a man to wrap me up in his arms like this, s o m e d a y.

t i m e .

It seems as if a year passes by in forty seconds.

I want to see forty seconds pass by in a year, for a change.

Journal.

I bought a new Journal last night. It was on sale at Borders.
but the "$5.99" sticker on its front cover isn't the reason why I did so.
I swear, I felt this sort of magnetism pull me towards it.
It's as if, it's already coated with my synthetic words.
It's there. My words, thoughts, captured youth--
all I need to do is decode it. Unravel it.

Like some sort of obscured time-capsule.

An answer.

"Well, I like dried cranberries (I'm actually eating some as I type this), the smell of books, the sound of rain,

I very much enjoy going to old thrift-stores--

I like making up stories of whom the items there used to belong to. 

I like freckles, I think they're beautiful. and the color blue-- 

stamps and postcards, vinyl and type-writers,

the way ice-cream feels when it melts in my mouth. 

I like a lot of things. 

I like it when people ask me to tell them about the things I like."

And he never wrote back, after that...

PRESS PLAY > >

Everybody thinks my head's full of nothin,
Wants to put his special stuff in,
Fill the space with candy wrappers,
Keep out sex and revolution,
But there's no hole in my head.
Too bad.
They call me a dupe of this and the other,
Call me a puppet on a string, they,
They don't know my head's full of me
And that I have my own special thing,
And there's no hole in my head.
Too bad.
I have lived since early childhood
Figuring out what's going on, I,
I know what hurts, I know what's easy,
When to stand and when to run,
And there's no hole in my head.
Too bad.
So please stop shouting in my ear, there's
Something I want to listen to, there's
A kind of birdsong up somewhere, there's
Feet walking the way I mean to go,
And there's no hole in my head.
Too bad.
Everybody thinks my head's full of nothin,
Wants to put his special stuff in,
Fill the space with candy wrappers,
Keep out sex and revolution,
But there's no hole in my head.
Too bad.

Note to self:

I   B E L O N G   IN    N E W   Y  O R  K   C I T Y!

I guess I've always known this, ever since elementary school. Fourth grade, to be exact.

I remember this kid I had the hugest crush on
(I won't say his full name for just-in-case-he-himself-ever-reads-this-I-won't-be-totally-embarrassed purposes) his last name was Newborn; Yes, my crush was so profound to the point that + 9 years later I still remember his last name--back to the point though, this blue eyed blond haired Andrew--I mean, Newborn, is the one I owe sincere gratitude for introducing my spark of interest to New York City. When we came back to school from our two-week Winter break, our teacher, Ms. Larroy, asked us to share with the class what we had done over our Winter break. Out of all the "Visits to the North Pole", "eating Oreo's and drinking a glass of Krudsen 2% with Santa Clause", and "almost falling down the edge of a cliff while hiking up a mountain at Big Bear" stories, (okay, maybe some of those are made-up) there was a story-share that absolutely blew me away. Yes, it was Newborn's of course; but it wasn't just because he was like the Jake Ryan [you got it right, Sixteen Candle's reference!] of my childhood--not at all. It was the actual descriptions that he gave about his trip to this, at the time unfamiliar New York city, that made my brain go wild with intrigue. He told us about all the humongous buildings there were, and how busy the streets were, and how he'd encountered the most delicious pizza of his life there, and he even showed us pictures he'd taken of the Statue of Liberty. I wasn't sure how, or when, but I knew that one day I would go to this so called NYC, and experience all its magic, and delicious pizza, for myself. Imagine that, this was my mentality as a Tweety-watch-wearing, pig-tailed fourth-grader. With time--countless-research, NYC film-watching, NYC photograph-looking, NYC blog-scouting,  NYC based magazines-reading, and an accessible amount of NYC awareness later; this aspiration was nevertheless bound to grow a severe amount. It just seems so magical to me--a city full of hopes, adventures, dreams. All the movement--street lights, cabs, subways. The fashion, music, food, parks, libraries. How it seems to be just as A L I V E during the night as it is during the day--I want that. I want it all. If it's possible to fall in love with a stranger, is it possible to fall in love with something, in my case--a city, before truly actually getting to experience it? That probably sounds confusing--but you get me, right? I feel so drawn to that City. I've never been there, but the day I finally do, it's as if I know what to expect. I feel it, in my heart--I'll want to stay there and never come back. It's time I officially announce, to the world (who will probably never read this) and to myself--starting this Friday's paycheck, my save-up for my destined life in the Big Apple, begins.

CLICK IT, or miss it.

 

Hear the story behind 

this lovely photo of miss Bridgette Bardot

by clicking the link below:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/video/2009/nov/03/brigitte-bardot-photograph-terry-o-neill

The wayfarer.

Picture me running--
through sun-baked valley's,
in search of an image that once was my own.
Picture me fleeing this damned mellow city,
in pursuit of a passion only found past brick walls.
Picture me dancing through fields of tall grass,
one step after another, relinquishing the past.
Imagine with eyes closed-- the sense of my frustration,
as I resume the pulse within me and retain from hesitation.
Picture me dearly, picture me so,
Picture the moments I said we'd never part.
Picture me leaving, picture me gone--
Demolish the image of my flesh, the sound of my breath.
Accept these words of credence--
acknowledge with your heart,
I'm running for the sake of freedom,
for the will to carry-on.
Storms come, I'll keep on running,
until day and night convert to one--
I elope, not to forsake you,
but to transcend the convicted doubt of hope.

PRESS PLAY > >

Save up all the days,
A routine malaise.
Just like yesterday,
I told you I would stay.

Would you always,
Maybe sometimes,
Make it easy,
Take your time.

Think of all the ways,
Momentary phase.
Just like yesterday,
I told you I would stay.

Every time you try,
Quarter half the mile.
Just like yesterday,
I told you I would stay.

Would you always,
Maybe sometimes.
Make it easy--
Take your time.

You're

not as deep as you think.
when you fall eight-teen feet under,
and tremble as you speak.
You're not as strong as you thought,
you push and you thrust,
but it's never enough.
You're weak, defeated,
your body lacks strength,
your mind lacks coherency,
your heartbeat sounds faint.

Why do you stay here?
Why do you wait?
So defenseless, so restless,
too fragile, bound to make mistakes.
What's your stance?
Which pursuits do you portray?
Oh, sincere man! I ask you from my grave,
How much time,
lows and highs--
How much more of life can you sustain?

The exposure.

Distinguish me.

In a field of Zinnias,

light me up,

extinguish me.

Carry me,

bury me, 

paint my torso in shades of red.

Feel me --

touch me --

fall on me --

enthrall me --

trace with your fingertips along the lines of map on my back.

rest your covet thoughts

across my chest.

Your eyes speak to me in soft whispers--

unravel your emotions with the tip of your tongue.

Expose me,

unzip me,

inside you, swallow me,

take me with you, far away.